


never again

by mind_boggling



Series: til the end of the line [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, Sad sad sad, funerals aren’t fun, second part of the angst!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-04 21:05:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15155618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mind_boggling/pseuds/mind_boggling
Summary: “I can’t wear this, I can’t. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve that title anymore. I am in no way shape or form the man than I was back then. He was honourable, he was someone loyal and hardworking, someone who could listen to his own mind and not think it was telling him lies. I’m more of a machine than anything. I’m not Sergeant Barnes, I’m a murderer”





	never again

**Author's Note:**

> so this is the second part of my stucky wishes for a4 ha ha ha ! so much angst i apologise i warned you 2.0  
> based on this phenomenal art of [steve's death](https://twitter.com/petitemadame/status/986357967376273408?s=21)
> 
> also: mentioned predictions about other deaths i think will happen/could happen in a4.... dont hate me or come for me thanks

The flags were posted everywhere. Everywhere.

It was to be expected. The patriotism in the chapel was evident— his funeral enthused with red white and blue. No blacks, no whites. Everything was the colours of his country. The country he died for. The country that didn’t deserve him as their captain.

Every night that he closed his eyes, he saw their faces. He saw the ones they lost, the ones that died in victory or died in vain, Steve— his Steve. Steve who died for justice, for honour and hope for the new world; Steve who served his country as a veteran, as a man wanting to fight for the rights of every human; Steve who was just a man himself. Just someone who wanted an everyday life in an apartment where he didn’t have to watch his every move. Where he didn’t have to look over his shoulder for potential threats. They both did. Bucky felt the same.

He felt out of place at the funeral. Out of place in his outfit, stood next to multiple veterans who’ve served and lost during their times across the globe or in Bucky’s case, in one of the world wars. He was out of place against these veterans because they’d experienced different things to him, fought in different wars in different eras, different time periods with different weapons, armour, defence strategies, allies and everything. Everything. Something Bucky couldn’t quite grasp once he’d broken free from Hydra. He was a veteran, but did it matter in this time? In such a time where the world wars weren’t a major topic of conversation anymore? An era where veterans of this decade were remembered and honoured, not those who built the foundations of wars and combat.

Like Steve.

Steve— he transitioned so well. He had one main goal, one main aspect of why he fought the way he did, how he fought, and how it affected him. For the greater good. Bucky couldn’t wrap his head around it, so he just followed Steve’s lead.

What happens when your leader is dead?

Before they left for the chapel, Bucky was sat in a room on a bed. The bed wasn’t particularly comfy, the room not particularly colourful. Not homely, not warm. Just a room. An empty room, for an empty man. He was staring at a service booklet, sat in his cold and calloused hands. Still bruised from the fight, blood still scabbing over the knuckles of his right hand.

_In loving memory of Steven Grant Rogers._

An oval shaped picture of Steve in the centre. His smile was a toothy grin, the lines in his face evident as his mouth curved upward. His smile made Bucky smile, but only so little that it wasn’t more than a minuscule muscle spasm. The booklet creased with Bucky’s grip on it, tightening it as the anger rose within him.

_I’ve wanted to tell you, Steve._

He squeezed his eyes shut as the tears formed, switching the booklet to his other hand as he wiped them from his eyes. They stung, Bucky squeezing his thumb and forefinger into his eyes to try and harvest the pain. Nothing worse than what he’d felt before.

_I know, Buck. So tell me now._

He was interrupted by a knock at the door, and pulling him back to reality was Sam. The two of them had never got on, but made things work for the sake of Steve. Steve bought them together as his closest allies, as the two people he could trust most other than Nat, and so they made a silent truce to never discuss their mutual dislike for one another in Steve’s presence.

“Hey,” Sam spoke quietly, but his voice was loud in the echoing room. He approached the bed Bucky sat on, taking a seat next to him. In his arms was a bag, and Bucky didn’t bother to move his eyes from the booklet in his hand. He knew Sam had a purpose for his visit, he just didn’t know what. Frankly, he didn’t care.

They’d been living in the same apartment since everything calmed down; living in a state of silence and mourning as the void between the two of them was too big to fill. Their one thing in common was gone. Bucky always assumed Sam would leave him alone once Steve had left the picture, the two of them going their separate ways as there was nothing to keep them together anymore. Although he’d never admit it aloud to Sam, Bucky was thankful he was there. Thankful for the place to stay, thankful for keeping him on track, otherwise it was unknowing what Bucky may have done.

He couldn’t stay in Wakanda. The hospitality was greatly appreciated during the time of need, but he was a burden, a trouble on T’Challa’s radar, something at the back of Shuri’s mind that she always had to come back to. The broken man Steve had dumped on their doorstep to be put back into cryo and his mind be taken apart once again. Once again, a bond that Steve was the centre of. Everything began to fall apart.

“Bucky,” Sam stirred him once more, Bucky crinkling the booklet in his hand completely, the sheer force of the metal on his right destroying it in front of his eyes. “Look at me”

It took a second but he dragged his eyes from the booklet to Sam. Upon first look, he hadn’t noticed what Sam wore. A uniform that Bucky recognised so well. The blue suited him well; Bucky would never tell. It looked tight and Sam looked uncomfortable. Rightfully so. Bucky could tell he was trying not to let his PTSD resurface due to the memories his uniform brought back. He eyed the tag on Sam’s chest; _Sergeant Wilson_.

“What?” Bucky’s reply was more of a snap than anything. Sam’s features only hardened in response and he took a breath, looking down toward the bag in his hands. “What’s that?” He found himself speaking again.

“For you” Sam answered, holding the bag out to Bucky. It crinkled when it moved, and the sound echoed around the room as Bucky hesitated to take it from him. “I had it tailored to your size. You’re not exactly as small as you used to be in the forties, huh”

The realisation hit him and Bucky tore through the bag, looking down at what was inside. The green fabric lay on top, the badges hidden by the folds in the clothing. The pants, the jacket, his hat. His tag; _Sergeant Barnes_. It was too real, too raw, and he pushed it back into the bag and back toward Sam. “I can’t wear this”

Sam sighed, and the memory appeared in Bucky's mind in short flashes. “Bucky–“

_Everyone give it up for Captain America!_

“I can’t wear this, Sam” Bucky snapped again, and again, standing up in protestation. “I can’t wear this, I can’t. I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve that title anymore. I am in no way shape or form the man than I was back then. He was honourable, he was someone loyal and hardworking, someone who could listen to his own mind and not think it was telling him lies. I’m more of a machine than anything. I’m not Sergeant Barnes, I’m a murderer”

Sam was quiet for a long time as Bucky vented everything toward him. He listened intently, and he watched with direct eye contact the entire time. Bucky had never been so watched with such intensity before. “He’d be ashamed if I put that on, Sam, you know that, right?”

“You wanna know something, Barnes?” Sam said, throwing the bag onto the bed next to him. He stood from his seated position, facing Bucky in a stance. “He looked for you, for years. Years. Years of his life, of my life, because I was by his side every step of it. He looked for you because he wanted to help you. He wanted to heal you, because that’s who Steve was. He just wanted to fix every damn asshole he came across. And he searched for you, for so long.”

“And this one time, we were in Lagos. I’m sure you heard about that, right? In Lagos, Steve comes face to face with your buddy Brock Rumlow. Rumlow’s trying to get revenge on Steve for Washington, for what happened in the Triskelion. And you know what Steve told me? He says, Rumlow said your name, just your name, and just like that he felt like that sixteen year old kid in Brooklyn. That’s how he remembers you,” Sam picked up the bag once again, thrusting it into Bucky’s chest. “This is how he knows you”

Bucky swallows the tears that had formed in his throat. “He looked for me?”

Sam nodded once in response. “We did”

He can’t contain the tears that suddenly surface, dropping onto the uniform in front of him, a little dark stain appearing on the green fabric. Sam placed a hand on his shoulder, just as Steve used to, squeezing in support and recognition of his hurt. Sam took his hat off slowly, pressing it to his chest as he pulled Bucky toward him, the two of them embracing in a hug.

Bucky felt his arm wrap around Sam’s body, the metal of his arm growing irritable and gradually gripping tighter onto Sam. It was dangerous, it wasn’t safe for him to embrace anyone like that. It could endanger them, it could hurt them in ways he didn’t even mean to. Which is why Bucky never hugged anyone. Why he never hugged Steve if he could help it. Why he only gripped on so tightly in case he hurt Steve, when in reality, he wanted to hold Steve so tight that it felt like the world around them would crumble.

When they pulled apart from one another, Sam left the room in silence as Bucky donned his uniform for what would probably be the last time.

They stood side by side in the chapel, the two of them along with Rhodey, T’Challa, Bruce and Clint having carried Steve’s casket down the aisle toward the front of the chapel. It had become routine, they’d done it so many times. Bucky would stand at the front, Sam on his left. Rhodey and T’Challa behind them, with Bruce and Clint following. It always went exactly the same way.

The exact same with Tony’s casket. With Thor’s. With Nat’s.

Steve’s was different, though. It was much more formal than the others due to the undertones of his veteran days. It was an entirely different service, three finger salutes, the national anthem, military honours, readings at the committal shelter. There were so many more details to Steve’s goodbye than anyone else’s. There was so much more hurt enthused into his service because of this. So much that Bucky could relate to that he couldn’t within the other services. So much from the 40s, from where he fell in love with the tiny boy from Brooklyn who couldn’t help but pick fights with just about anyone.

The service ended in exactly the same way as the others; in painful silence. When Bucky finally tore his eyes from the ground, every veteran in the Church had formed a single line at Steve’s casket to pay respects. Bucky could hear them all whisper the exact same thing as the approached the casket, or variations of it. Rest easy, Soldier. At ease. Thank you for your service. Those kinds of things.

Rhodey, also donned in his colonel uniform approached the two of them sat on the pew. He beckoned Sam to follow him, and he stood from the seat as they joined the end of the line. Bucky took a deep breath as he felt both pairs of eyes on him, and he stood from his seat and joined them in the line. They stood in silence as they waited, stepping forward as the veterans said their piece and left. Rhodey said something Bucky wasn’t able to hear before stepping aside, leaving Sam and himself stood in front of the casket.

Steve lay inside the casket, hands placed over his chest in perfect harmony, unmoving against his dead body. Under his hands lay his helmet, so blue and such a stark contrast to the darkness of his suit. His skin was still bruised, still purple in places but most of the swelling upon his face had died down. His eyes were lifeless and still under his eyelids, eyelashes just as still. Everything was still and quiet, and the complete opposite of Steve and his visceral movements and the power in his shield.

Bucky watched as Sam stepped to the casket, pulling something from the pocket of his uniform and placing it neatly within the casket. Bucky didn’t see what it was. Sam began to speak, and Bucky tried his best not to listen, but caught ear of what he said. Every painful word. Sam laughed quietly before he left, smiling as a stray tear left his eyes. “On your left, Cap. I’m on your left. Always”

Bucky placed a hand on his shoulder as Sam’s tears got the better of him. He wiped them from his cheeks and sniffed, moving aside so that Bucky was left alone at the casket. He waited until he heard Sam’s footsteps move out of the chapel, the door closing behind him. Taking a breath, Bucky placed a hand on the edge of the casket. He was almost afraid to touch him, as though if he did, his body would turn to dust instantly. That Bucky’s final image of him would be tainted forever.

“I always thought you’d outlive me, Steve, not the other way around” Bucky spoke quietly, his voice echoing around the chapel. He laughed a little, “I’m 102 for Christ’s sake. You’re supposed to be the young one, here pal”

The worst part about it was the expectancy of Steve saying something back. Making a joke, scalding something he’d said, or even just a laugh. Bucky missed everything. He missed it all, everything about Steve was slipping from his mind once again— his heart thumped as he felt himself slip back into the dark and hollow hole he felt into in Hydra’s clutches. He couldn’t let himself go back there, let himself lose sight of Steve’s memory, of his mere presence.

He couldn’t remember Steve’s laughter, remember the times that he smiled and the corners of his mouth creased into his cheeks. How his eyes would pierce your own with such intensity that every moving particle within you stopped in its tracks, stopped you from falling into the dark place he was saving you from. His hand gripping to yours like the light in a tunnel as you were pulled into the after. The after- Steve brushes you off and smiles at you. All in a days work. Wipes the tears you didn’t know were falling, reassures the ghosts you didn’t know were stirring. He couldn’t remember Steve, and it terrified him.

But he wasn’t alone anymore. He wasn’t in Hydra- the only thing that he had to remind himself of Steve being his own mind. He had Sam. Someone to remind him of the time he missed. The time he spent away from Steve that Sam didn’t, the things Bucky didn’t know but looked forward to hearing about. He had T’Challa, Rhodey, Clint, Bruce, Wanda all of them. They each had pieces of Steve within them to tell, to keep his memory alive.

Even if Bucky forgot, there would be people to remind him. This wasn’t Hydra anymore.

Bucky wiped the stray tears. “I can’t stop thinking of us on your doorstep,” He said, looking down at Steve, still expecting him to respond. “Steve, answer me”

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t, ever again.

“I can’t stop thinking of it, you know? And those promises we made, you remember?” Bucky asked. “Do you remember? Of course you do. And I meant it, Steve, I did. Cause I’m here. I’m right here. Always will be, I always will”

But Steve wouldn’t be. He couldn’t be, not ever again.

“Steve,” Bucky said, his voice choked with tears. He sniffed loudly, holding his sobs in for as long as possible as he willed them to pass. “Just answer me, please, Steve”

But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t, ever again.

Bucky sighed loudly. Wiped away his tears. Put his three fingers to the temple of his head, and stuck them in the air. Placed a gentle hand on Steve’s shoulder. Gentle, the one hand that wasn’t metal.

He didn’t want their last embrace to be made of metal. “I told you, pal, and I meant it. I meant it then, I mean it now, I’ll mean it tomorrow. Forever. I’m with you til the end of the line”

**Author's Note:**

> find me elsewhere:
> 
>  **twitter:** vanlangs  
>  **tumblr:** bisexualieberman


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